By the deep sea, and music in its roar
by Yami no Ryu
Summary: There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar George Gordon, Lord Byron Apostrophe to the Ocean


Daniel didn't know where he was, or how he had gotten there, and didn't care. That in itself should have alarmed him, but it was as if he was wrapped in cotton: everything was soft around the edges, and warm, even the water lapping gently at his bare feet. 

Somehow, he had ended up dressed in a pale blue shirt, unbuttoned and fluttering slightly in the ocean breeze, and a pair of cutoff jeans unravelling just above his knees. His glasses were conspicuously absent, yet he could see better than ever.

He wiggled his toes, enjoying, distantly, how the damp sand felt. In front of him, a vast, glittering ocean stretched to the horizon. The beach, a pale, gleaming cream, stretched just as infinitely to his left and right. He assumed, in that same distant way, that it also extended behind him, but he couldn't be bothered to turn.

A wave crashed, and the tide flowed forward before ebbing slowly back. It took a moment for him to realize that, woven seamlessly into the pound of the waves, was a song. Unearthly and haunting, the melody raised the hairs on the backs of his arms and neck. He glanced to the side, and saw a person. She, or he, was singing.

Long hair the color of seafoam stirred faintly about the person's shoulders. Pale skin held a tinge of deep-ocean blue. Airy, pastel green cloth hung in a kind of robe over a slight, asexual body. Daniel watched with a detached curiosity as the person's sorrowful song drew to an end. Then the person turned to him.

"What was that?" he asked, quietly, of the creature. It wasn't human, Daniel knew; no human could sing like that.

The creature pushed its hair behind a pointed ear with one fine-boned hand, and answered musically, "A Song of Mourning."

Daniel nodded, and turned back to the ocean. He stirred, an indeterminable amount of time later, to ask, "Where am I?"

"My home," the creature answered. It was still looking at him, eyes the color of a clear caribbean bay. "You're dead."

The archaeologist felt no surprise. "Is this Heaven? Paradise?"

"No," the creature said, amusement coloring its soft, melodic voice. "I should rather say, you are almost dead."

The cotton seemed to be dissolving bit by bit. The world was no less muted, but his emotions were coming stronger, and his curiosity was growing. "But not quite."

"No," it agreed, "not quite."

"Why?"

"I am keeping you from dying," the creature said.

"What are you?" Daniel inquired, tilting his head. "You're not ascended."

"No. I am Sidhe, or a branch," murmured the creature. Daniel's eyes widened. The Sidhe were Irish faeries, thought to be nature spirits or gods and goddesses. Before he could say anything, it continued, "I've been watching you." The Sidhe smiled, oh so slightly.

"You like what you see?" Daniel said, feeling a little self-conscious. He pulled the shirt closed.

"Very much," it said warmly. "Yours is such a pure spirit, it is like watching a song."

Daniel cleared his throat, but said nothing.

"I've embarrassed you," said the Sidhe, with a bit of fond amusement. "My apologies."

"No," Daniel said quickly, "it's okay. I'm just surprised."

"You would be," it said, the words almost exasperated, but the musical voice not nearly. "What is the last thing you remember?"

Daniel tried to think, but though his emotions might be coming back, his memories were distant and hazy. "Carter...no, it was the replicator. She was probing me, I think. Did--she killed me, didn't she." It wasn't a question.

The Sidhe answered anyway. "Yes."

Daniel sighed.

"You will be surprised to hear," said the Sidhe, "that Oma Desala wished to rescue you. Again."

At this, Daniel started. "She did? Why haven't I ascended?"

"I stopped her," it replied serenely. "I am more powerful than she, or perhaps quicker. There are many planes of existence between the one which the ascended inhabit and the one the mortals do, and many planes above. I exist on one of those, though which, it is never clear. She is aware of me and mine, though, as I am of her and her kind."

"You're…enemies?" Daniel ventured, trying to summon fear, or at least suspicion. The beauty and stillness of the beach seemed to dispel such emotions as soon as he reached for them.

"We disagree, the ascended and I," the Sidhe clarified. "Oma Desala I admire, and pity."

Daniel said nothing, because there was nothing really to say. He watched the waves crash and recede, a neverending cycle. Poets throughout time had considered the ocean a symbol of eternity, forever unchanging. Watching the endless motion of the sea as it reached for the horizon, he understood why.

"Why am I here?" he finally asked. "Why did you stop Oma?"

"There are many things you forgot when you descended," the creature said, an apparent non sequitur. "Some things you are perhaps better off not knowing."

Daniel waited patiently for the Sidhe to get to the point.

"I can deposit you at the exact moment when you die, when Oma Desala would have taken you," continued the Sidhe. "You would not remember me, or my home, or this conversation in any part. Or I can simply…bring you back to life. In a safe place, of course."

Now Daniel looked at her sideways. "If you thought that bringing me back to life was for the best, why haven't you?"

"As I said, I have watched you for a long time," it began. "I have become fond of you. There are things you learned when you ascended that you did not like, that you chose to forget. Should Oma Desala have taken you, you would have relearned them."

"You wanted to save me from an unpleasant truth?" Daniel said in disbelief. He'd learned a lot of things while mortal that he hadn't liked, and he had survived. More curious still that a being so obviously and admittedly fey would feel such a human emotion.

"A human trait," murmured the Sidhe dryly, "but true nonetheless."

For the first time since it had looked at him, it turned back to the ocean. It seemed to be thinking, and Daniel let it think. It was keeping him alive, after all, or at least not letting him die. The Sidhe said, "My kind can see the future, sometimes, glimpses of what could be."

"What's my future?"

"It depends on your choice, and the choices you make after that," the Sidhe said, still looking seaward.

"Tell me," Daniel ordered.

"It is not wise," the Sidhe whispered, clasping its hands behind its back. Its musical voice was uncertain. Daniel figured it wouldn't have brought up the subject if it didn't want to talk about it, so he pressed on.

"I have two choices that will affect my future in different ways. I doubt I'll remember this in either case," Daniel said. "What's the harm?"

The Sidhe sighed, a breath with the echo of wind-through-leaves. "Should you choose to let Oma Desala help you, you will be stranded in an in-between state."

"Is that different from how I am now?" Daniel asked.

"You will learn unpleasant things, and you will not forget them," continued the Sidhe, as if Daniel hadn't spoken. "You will learn Anubis's plans to decimate the free Jaffa, and be unable to help. You will learn how Anubis became half-ascended, and your trust in Oma Desala will be shaken."

Daniel didn't like the sound of this future so far. At all.

"And…" the Sidhe seemed hesitant, "you will give Oma Desala the strength to fight Anubis. Not kill him, for she does not have the power for that. Only the collective might of the ascended can completely destroy him. But she will be able to stop his ambush of the new Jaffa homeworld."

"That doesn't sound too bad," Daniel said lightly, only half joking.

The Sidhe paused as it gathered its thoughts. "If you choose to let me revive you, the future is different. You will appear in the SGC, whole and hale, your death the last thing you remember. The Jaffa homeworld will be retaken, the rebellion shattered. Anubis will wipe out all life in the galaxy and start over, tailoring it to his own design."

"This sounds a lot worse than the other," Daniel pointed out.

The Sidhe nodded. She looked at Daniel again, and her eyes were clouded and sad. Daniel had the urge to clear the sorrow and shadow, but didn't know how. The Sidhe said, "It is."

"Then there really isn't a choice, is there," the archeologist stated.

"I did not expect you to let me help," confessed the Sidhe.

"Then why even give me a choice? Why bring me here in the first place?" Daniel asked, not really angry, but a bit frustrated.

The Sidhe's eyes lightened again to a clear turquoise, and it smiled. "Selfish reasons. I wished to speak with you myself. Meet you. Even if you do not remember this, I will."

Daniel wasn't quite sure how to make of that. Seeing his uncertainty, the Sidhe laughed, a sound like wind chimes and rain. "I may not be human, but observing them for so long, I may have acquired some human characteristics."

"That does tend to happen," Daniel agreed with a wry grin.

The Sidhe became serious. "I cannot keep you for much longer. As you are, you are not meant to be here." It took two quick steps, closing the distance between them. Daniel was too startled to move, and the Sidhe leaned in, pressed one delicate hand to his shoulder, the other to his chest, and then it sang. The melody was soft and full of the crash of the ocean, the hiss of sea spray, the gentle lap of waves. It seemed to imbed itself in his bones, sear itself into his very soul. The Sidhe pulled back. "That is my song. You will not remember me here," it touched his temple, "but you will remember me here," and it touched his chest, above his heart.

Daniel let out a long, awed breath.

"Goodbye, Daniel," the Sidhe said, a shadow of a smile hovering around the corners of its mouth. Daniel could say nothing, his voice still lost to the Sidhe's song.

The Sidhe took two steps back. It sang. As sorrow and grief and darkness had filled the Song of Mourning, this soared into the air, imbued with light and life. Daniel thought it must be a Song of Joy. Then, with nary a hint of discord, the song became something else. Daniel felt himself falling, the sand giving way beneath him, water that was not water swallowing him and caressing him as he faded out of consciousness.

* * *

He opened the wooden door, and walked in. The diner was full of people of all ages and races and creeds, sitting and eating silently. Only the chink of silverware and the noise of cooking filled the quiet, and even those sounds were strangely muted. Daniel felt out of place.

A sign said in block letters, PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF. Still uneasy, unsettled by the lack of conversation, he slowly made his way to a booth and sat down. The cushion was clean and comfortable, and the table was spotless.

"So, what can I get for you?"

Daniel looked up into the familiar face of Oma Desala in the unfamiliar clothes of a waitress, and wondered when he'd entered the Twilight Zone.


End file.
